Interludes of Life
by Azolean
Summary: A lyrical and musical exploration of inspiration. Random shorts and snapshots.
1. Remember

_**A/N: **For anyone who's read my profile, I my better half died on 10/28/02. As I am approaching the tenth anniversary of her death, I've found myself plagued by reminders that I have not yet fulfilled my promise. And, today, I stumbled across a song that left me wanting to cry. A rare event, to say the least. Every once in a while I will have these little emotional "spasms". Perhaps I can put them to good use here. _

_I promise to pick up and even wrap up "Sightless" in a few days; probably no more than a week._

_In the meantime, I've decided to play around. These will be snapshot-type scenes and random shorts. They will probably not be connected to anything else. I really don't know where this is going to take me. But I will just call it a work in progress indefinitely. _

_These will all be little pieces inspired by music or lyrics. Artist credits will be listed with each chapter. Oh yeah, and I suppose I should mention I have a habit of chopping the lyrics to suit my needs here. And no slash is intended, though I'm sure some would view it otherwise. I leave that up to personal opinion. I'm just making my perspective here known. _

_And, no, I'm not starting with the one that spawned this series. That one is **Seven Channels: Breathe**_

* * *

_...Let me die on my own terms_

_Let me live and let me learn_

_Now I follow my own way_

_And I'll live on to another damn day_

_Freedom carries sacrifice_

_Remember when this was my life_

_**~3 Doors Down: Life of My Own**_

* * *

Holmes was not surprised to find he had awoken choking on another scream. The night around him outside the tent was chilly. But the chill of the scene he had watched yet again in his dreams chilled him more deeply than even an Arctic winter could have hoped to achieve.

How long had it been?

How many months would these nightmares continue?

How long would he wander the world a ghost, a dead man?

Holmes turned these things over in his mind as he lit the candle with trembling hands. He had watched from the cliff above that day. He had seen his Watson crying out, begging for him to answer...to deny the death he saw in those raging waters below. It was all he could do not to answer those heart-wrenching cries. They had gone from concern, to disbelief, to guilt, to pleading, and finally ended in a wordless scream of rage and denial at the unfairness of the loss that had echoed off the rock walls and through Holmes' soul.

Silently Holmes pleaded with God that Watson would understand. He begged for confirmation that he had made the right decision in abandoning his friend, his home, his life.

Now he was alive and a part of Watson was dead. He had sacrificed so much to buy the freedom he needed to finally put an end to the last remnants of Moriarty's budding empire in the criminal world.

Briefly Holmes closed his eyes as he recalled a time before. He remembered when his life had been his own and he had struggled to begin his eccentricly unique career. But he had not been alone even then. Watson had been there. It seemed, now, as if Watson had always been there. Despite all his rational thinking and logical reasoning, he could not remember a time when Watson had not been there. Those memories so long removed now seemed...wrong, empty.

Yes, those years spent in the company of his dearest friend and partner, Watson were what he remembered now of his life. But that life was gone now. The memories were all he had left, and the hope that one day he could return and find a way to make it up to Watson.


	2. Fight

_A warning to the people; the good and the evil_

_This Is war_

_To the soldier, the civillian, the martyr, the victim_

_This is war_

_It's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie_

_And the moment to live, and the moment to die_

_The moment to fight, the moment to fight_

_To fight, to fight, to fight_

_To the right, to the left_

_We will fight to the death_

_To the edge of the earth_

_It's a brave new world, from the last to the first..._

_...I do believe in the light_

_Raise your hands into the sky_

_The fight is done, the war is won_

_Lift your hands toward the sun_

_~**30 Seconds to Mars: This is War**_

* * *

In all his thirty-something years Watson could never have imagined himself in such a position or that he could possibly be feeling the way he was now. He had known combat. He'd seen and felt the horrors of bloody battles. He'd walked the fields of the dead and dying, the screams echoing in his nightmares.

But as he and Holmes stood now upon this rooftop embroiled in frantic combat with more opponents than any sane man would dare take on, he felt...exhilirated, alive. His laughter rang across the London rooftops as he kept his back to Holmes' and they fought on. His shoulder and leg pained him more than they had in some time. His physical recovery had taken years. His losses had destroyed the life planned for him and nearly robbed him of the life he desired. Yet he had emerged from the bloody, horrifying mess that was now simply called the Battle of Maiwand.

He had thought then he would never want any part of violence, war, or combat ever again.

As their seven opponents fell one by one in this struggle that would mean life for death for the two of them, Watson felt more in those few minutes than he had throughout his entire life thus far. Or so it seemed at the time. Always before it was tuning out the meaningless, senseless violence all around him.

This was different. This was right.

Holmes had made his stance against the criminal elements of the world known to him shortly after announcing the truth of his chosen profession. Watson had admired him then. And that had been nothing more than a glimpse of the truth. Here he found his truth. He was capable and willing to defend the innocents and victims. Here the violence had meaning and purpose that served a greater good.

Watson welcomed this new perspective his flatmate and partner had been reluctant to introduce him to. His profession as a doctor gave him the ability to better the lives of those he called patients. His willingness to do what was right and stand beside Holmes even in these nearly suicidal circumstances gave him the chance to make a better world. For this he was willing to fight, to the death if needed.

As the first rays of daylight broke across the rooftops blinding their remaining opponents, Holmes and Watson used this to their advantage. Moments later, the two sat heaving breaths of chilly morning air. All around them across the rooftop were the sprawled bodies of their foes. They had survived another fight, another day. Turning to check one another for injuries, they shared a smile of understanding. Being their first joint fight in any criminal investigation, it had been quite...revealing.

For several seconds they simply stood there in silence, taking in their victory. A minor criminal ring had been wiped out almost completely this night. And these last few remnants were all that had been left in an attempt at vengeance. Briefly, Watson gazed around him at the dawn and breathed a deeply contented sigh that released his remaining tension.

This was right.

This battle was over. Yet, he knew now, that so long as he followed Holmes' career, there would be more; and each would be as right as this first.


	3. Memories

_**A/N: **Okay, here is one part using these lyrics. So, I will warn you, depending on where this little exploration takes me, these might get reused a few times. Again, no slash intended. _

* * *

_It's been so long since you've gone away_

_And I know things will never be the same_

_I break it all down so it will show to me clear_

_But all the while I'm wishing you were here_

_In my dreams I can see and feel your face_

_But next to me sits an empty space _

_Sometimes this life doesn't make any sense to me_

_I need some time to heal and some space to breathe ..._

_...As I lay on the floor and I wonder why _

_The question remains_

_Just why did you die?_

_I thank God for you and the memories_

_But I still wish you were here with me ..._

_...Gone away and I pray for the strength to _

_The strength to carry on_

_Cuz I'm breathing you in and breathing you out_

_I still feel you though you're gone_

_**~Seven Channels: Breathe**_

* * *

Two years.

Sometimes Watson wondered how he had managed as long as he had. As he stared down at what he knew to be an empty grave, he let his mind wonder back around to all the things that had changed. Nothing had been the same since Holmes had died at the falls. Yet, the city around him changed not a whit. The contradiction just seemed so...wrong.

There was one other thing that had not changed. As had been his ritual on this heartbreaking anniversary, he left the empty grave behind him at the cemetery and walked back to 221B Baker Street. He had another home now. He'd lived with his beloved wife Mary at another address. And yet, this still felt like home to him.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, bustling him inside in her motherly way. For one brief heartbeat in time, he could almost imagine he was coming home and Holmes would be waiting for him upstairs. But he knew that was not the case, and pretending otherwise only made this day that much more difficult for him. Nonetheless, he would follow through.

A pleasant hour spent sipping tea with Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen pretending life had gone on without Holmes, followed by the usual remonstrances that he wasn't taking care of himself. Then, of course, the inevitable string of memories shared and happier times spent within these walls. No, she hadn't rented out the rooms. They were still kept exactly as they had been, per Mycroft Holmes' orders. Besides, she didn't have the heart to remove his things. She was too old for new tenants she would have to break in and...

Of course he could go upstairs for a while.

Those dark brown eyes filled with pity and understanding nearly crushed him all over again. But, he had found some time ago he could now smile his way through anything. Maintaining his composure, Watson ascended the seventeen stairs to the one place that still held any element of his dearest friend, his brother, Sherlock Holmes.

Gazing upon all the articles of the detective with which he had once shared rooms, he tried to break it all down in his mind one more time. Despite the presence that resided here, he had to remind himself that Holmes would never return. But he could not stop himself wishing Holmes would come walking out of that bedroom door demanding his morning coffee. Knowing this would not happen, Watson made his way over to his old chair. It was one of several concessions Holmes had quietly kept as a reminder to Watson that he was always welcome within these walls, that this was his home too.

Sitting in his former chair, he wished for a fire and a pipe. But the empty chair across from him was just too stark of a reminder as to why he was really here now.

Watson found himself marching smartly, stiffly back out of the sitting room door moments later. He forced himself not to flee as images of Holmes danced through his mind. He could still see him so clearly, as if he'd never left. It was too much.

In a blind blur of emotions he could not yet sort out even for himself he returned to his own home. To his disappointment, he was greeted by another empty chair as Mary was out right now. He threw himself down on the sofa in their sitting room. Though there was no physical evidence of his friend here within these walls, there was still a presence. It was as if Holmes were still there, waiting to be acknowledged.

Watson squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He could clearly imagine his dearest friend's reaction to such emotional displays and outbursts. He would not have appreciated them, even now.

He struggled to find some sort of control, as a silent prayer repeated itself over and over. He let the memories and his prayers carry him away for a while. He had to be strong now. He had to find the strength to keep going, even after two years.

But it didn't stop the memories from giving life to a friend that would never return.


	4. Chase

_Past the road to your house_

_That you never call home_

_Where they turned out your lights_

_Though they say you'll never know..._

_...Take back your life_

_And let me inside_

_We'll find the door if you care to anymore_

_I remember running through the wet grass_

_And falling a step behind_

_Both of us never tiring_

_Desperately wanting_

_**~Better Than Ezra: Desperately Wanting**_

* * *

Inspector Lestrade walked beside Dr. Watson wrapped in his own thoughts. Even as they turned another corner and continued to stroll past the dark windows of Watson's house, he was thankful the man had not chosen to stop and drop off his bag or other things. Those empty walls held nothing for him now. Any opportunity Lestrade could find to keep him out of there was usually well received. Any feeling of home it once possessed had been buried with the doctor's wife and children, he knew.

"Alright there, Giles?" Watson's softly spoken question jarred him out of his thoughts.

"I apologize, John," Lestrade tossed back, quickly smoothing his features. "My mind was wandering again."

His thoughts must have been rather plainly painted on his face. He only hoped this rather observant man hadn't picked up enough from their deceased friend to be able to read them quite that easily.

"It has been a long week. I'm just hoping Cee—"

Whatever it was Watson was hoping for was silenced as a scream pierced the foggy night. Well used to the soupy London mists, both Lestrade and Watson easily determined the source of the scream and were running toward down the street before they had a chance to think. In seconds they had located the woman crouched in an alley huddling fearfully away from them. Seeing a shadowy figure retreating into the mists, they stopped just long enough to ensure she wasn't hurt and to tell her to get to Scotland Yard.

Together the two of them gave chase to a shadowy figure somewhere ahead of them in the mists. From hard paved and bricked alleys to the chilly wet grass of backyards and lots, they ran heedless of whatever dangers lay ahead. Afraid the tired doctor who had so badly neglected his body would soon began to lag, Lestrade watched his companion closely.

Watson was smiling.

For these few minutes in this determined chase to catch a minor criminal, Watson had come alive again. Lestrade could see it in every inch of the man's features. Here he saw his friend take back a part of himself he had denied since the death of his dearest friend, Holmes. For the first time in months, the inspector saw some hope of return for his friend. Maybe he was not as dead inside as he appeared.

And, as he began to fall a few steps behind the doctor, he could almost wish this chase would never end.


	5. For You

_**A/N: **The second section here was loaned to the awesome **Lemon Zinger** with my full permission. Thank you so much for turning it into so much more than I could see!  
_

* * *

_...I never know_

_I never care_

_I never believe my people_

_I'll tell you what I say_

_I never lie_

_I never try_

_I never cry for you people_

_I'll push you_

_Push away_

_As you lonely people_

_Keep on running around my door_

_Yes, you lonely people_

_Keep on begging_

_Beg for more..._

_**~Candlebox: You**_

Holmes sneered as the little inspector shouted at him with a red face. This was not the first time he and Inspector Lestrade had been at odds. And Holmes knew that if his chosen profession were to pan out, this would not be the last. Cutting off whatever meaningless twaddle was coming out of the man's mouth, Holmes cut in smoothly with a voice as entirely unruffled as ever.

"The deficiencies of Scotland Yard's intelligence both as a whole and on an individual level are nothing short of astounding, Lestrade," he told the man, deliberately dropping any title to present himself clearly as an equal.

"How dare you—"

"You cannot expect me to have any sort of faith in the Yard's abilities to resolve criminal cases when you are so utterly limited in your views. I really could not care less what you or the rest of your little friends think of my stance against the criminal elements, as I will easily prove the more effective by far."

"We are both on the same side, then! This is a ridiculous display of arrogance that could easily have gotten you killed tonight!" Lestrade shouted back.

"I've not denied that fact. Though, given the behavior of the Yard recently, I don't see why it would matter to you in the slightest."

Lestrade, dumbfounded by the man that now stood in his office—barely standing thanks to a number of injuries the Inspector knew he could not afford to see tended—could only glare. This young man had shown great potential. He had even attempted to take Holmes under his wing and encourage him to become a Yarder. And now it was all thrown back in his face by this cold-blooded, unfeeling little upstart.

"If you are quite finished, Lestrade," Holmes started, once again emphasizing his position as equal and not underling, "I'll be seeing to the rest of my night's work. Feel free to seek me out should you and the other inspectors ever need to actually solve a crime. For the rest, do not waste your concern on one who neither needs nor welcomes it."

Lestrade could only watch in mute shock as the young man left his office. How little the man cared for other people was no surprise. He'd made his stance on even something so casual as friendship quite clear early on. But to show this level of disregard not only for those around him as well as his own life was more than a little disturbing.

Holmes smiled as he returned to his squalid little rooms on Montague. He knew it was only a matter of time before those pathetic excuses for law enforcement officials would be knocking on his door once again. They always did come back begging for more.

* * *

_...I'll never try_

_I'll never die_

_I'll never push for you people_

_I'll tell you how I feel_

_I'll never lie_

_I'll never cry_

_I'll never try for you people_

_I'll tell you, yes it's real_

_And you lonely people_

_Keep on passing time away_

_Yes you lonely people keep on passing,_

_Pass away_

_**~Candlebox: You**_

As his new flatmate stumbled across the sitting room floor for the third time that day disturbing his delicate work at the chemistry table, Holmes had finally had enough. It was annoying in the extreme that the man was in such poor shape that he could not leave the house in this early spring weather. But that the man should shuffle restlessly around the sitting room disturbing him with his boredom was just too much!

"Dr. Watson, you will cease these meaningless wanderings before you cause me to make a mistake that could kill us both!" Holmes snapped.

Rather than feeling abashed or concerned, the doctor's green eyes flared as his wounded pride showed itself for a moment rather more fiercely than Holmes had expected.

"My apologies, Mr. Holmes," the doctor threw bad venomously. "I hadn't realized your odious experiments were also dangerous. Perhaps you would be so kind as to take into consideration that this is _our _sitting room."

"Ha!" Holmes barked a laugh. "As you wish, Doctor. But if you cannot find something better to do with your time than shuffling around this room, perhaps you would be better entertained with one of those ridiculous books your always reading in your own room."

"As I said, this is _my_ sitting room as well."

"Yes, but such a pathetically lonely individual should not forcibly inflict their presence on others. I could care less how terribly bored you are, so long as you stay out of my way. If it is companionship you are seeking, there are drinking establishments that would likely suit your temporary needs."

Having gained this understanding about his flatmate's callous opinions here in their first month of rooming together, Watson found his hands shaking as he gripped his cane tighter. In no condition for a row at this point, he simply turned and limped his way out of the sitting room.

Holmes watched calculatingly, still trying to get a measure of the man he now roomed with that seemed to keep so much contained. He had expected some sort of outburst or show of temper. Instead, the man had quietly left. While Holmes approved of this accommodating behavior, he could not help feeling the sense of disgust at such a ridiculously simple solution. The man had simply passed through the sitting room and was gone without even attempting to further defend his territory here in the sitting room.

Once again reminding himself what a pathetic species humans really were, he turned his attention back toward his experiments.

* * *

_And I'll cry for you_

_Yes, I'll die for you_

_Pain in my heart it is real_

_And I'll tell you now how I feel inside_

_Feel in my heart it's for you_

_And I'll take everything_

_As it comes my way_

_Pushin' your pain 'round my door_

_Will I cry for you as I die for you?_

_Is this blood on my hands all for you?..._

_**~Candlebox: You**_

Watson fought frantically to stem the flow of blood from his friend's chest. The knife had sliced cleanly across the ribs before finding purchase. He prayed that it had not penetrated Holmes' lung as he listened to the man's shallow, pain-filled gasps.

"Stay with me, Holmes," Watson murmured. "You're going to be alright."

Two short coughs followed by choking gasps rattled the doctor's already frayed nerves. Holmes moaned softly as he writhed trying to escape the pain Watson was now inflicting by trying to slow the bleeding.

Though the two had not lived together more than perhaps five years at the most, Watson refused to let his friend slip away. He could not imagine a life or a world without his friend. London needed him, needed his talents. Watson could not help feeling as if he should have been able to prevent this. This should be him lying there. Not this arrogant, self-absorbed, machine of a great detective.

Watson still could not understand why the blasted man was so careless with his own life. Did he not realize he was needed, that people cared about him?

Of course he didn't.

And that was part of what made him so very special as a logical thinking machine. He cared not a whit how much it would hurt another for him to throw his life away. He didn't care that others would die or come to harm for the lack of his extraordinary skills and talents. Watson, having lived in such close proximity to the man for this many years knew all too well how little Holmes cared. Watson had taken more than his fair share of the man's abuse and callousness.

But it didn't matter. None of that mattered.

In this moment as Watson begged with God not to let his friend die, he was not entirely surprised to realize he would happily trade places with the detective; and he would consider it worth it if only the man would not abandon him.

* * *

_...And it's mine on my own_

_Yes, it's mine all alone_

_As I cry for you_

_Yes, I'll die for you_

_Pain in my heart, it is real_

_And I'll take_

_Everything as it comes my way_

_Feel in my heart it's for you_

_And I'll lie for you as I die for you_

_Pain in my heart it is real_

_And I'll tell you now_

_How I feel inside_

_F... you!_

_It's for you!_

_**~Candlebox: You**_

Holmes pulled himself up off the floor of Watson's consulting room. The red-faced furious countenance did nothing to deter his own hurt feelings. He had essentially returned from the dead and all Watson could do was punch him?

"I had expected better from you, at least, Watson," Holmes commented, wiping the blood from around his lips with a handkerchief.

"Dr. Watson," he corrected coldly. "After all this time, you have no rights to call me friend or equal."

"Don't I?"

"You left me for three years to think you were dead, at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls. I grieved for you. Then for my children. And, most recently, for my wife. And now you expect to just walk back into my life as if you had not left me to face that alone? That is not what I would call a friend...or an equal. You are _nothing _to me!"

Having accepted all of this with the outward air of one receiving nothing more important than a weather report for the day, Holmes nodded slowly. Inside, it was all he could do to clamp down on his own emotional turmoil to keep from copying Watson's more physical display of emotion.

"I saw you at the falls, Dr. Watson. And I will remember that feeling for the remainder of my days in this life," Holmes started coldly, cutting off whatever Watson was about to say with a cold glare. "It was all I could do to keep the gun pointed at myself and not you. I did not abandon you. I kept your wife from becoming a widow. Your belief that I was dead was all that protected you and your loved ones these three years as I was chased across the continents. If that was not enough to be counted a friend, then you don't deserve friends."

Holmes watched the blood drain from Watson's face as he spoke. Without another room, he spun on his heel and headed back out of the consulting room.

Watson never let him get beyond the door.


	6. Only Good For

_**A/N: **Not entirely happy with this one. Might even break it up and change it a little. What do you think?  
_

* * *

_...Did it make it any easier to leave me where I stand?_

_I guess there might not be too many who would stand beside you now_

_Where'd you come from? _

_Where am I going?_

_Why'd you leave me 'till I'm only good for—_

_Waiting for you_

_All my sins..._

_I said that I would pay for them if I could come back to you_

_All my innocence is wasted on the dead and dreaming_

_**~Counting Crows: Angels of the Silences**_

It had been four days since Holmes' return from the dead. Three days since Watson had walked out of the sitting room with little more than a few too-casual words of parting. Both had happily pretended they would see each other again soon. Both were left knowing this for the lie that it was. Both were left feeling betrayed. Both were left wondering how to begin picking up the pieces. Both wondered if there even was a friendship left to salvage.

Holmes had seen it in those green eyes. Once the rush of surprise and excitement of a successfully closed case had faded their sparkle of life once more began to fade. Through the night as Holmes had talked and Watson listened quietly, offering nothing, Holmes had seen those eyes darken. Though his friend had learned a control of his expressions that Holmes found disturbing, those green eyes glinted with all the questions the man was refusing to ask. Come morning, he had excused himself to return to his duties as a physician as if nothing had really changed and this was just another casual visit from the days of old when he was married and no longer lived in those rooms on Baker Street.

Now, as Holmes entered the quiet of this lonely cemetery, he no longer had to wonder. When Watson had not answered his messages and had all but dropped out of sight, Holmes had found what he needed to know. He had known of Mary's passing, but not circumstances; nor had he known of the children's murders. His Watson had suffered much, and had done so alone, even refusing the offered friendship of the Yarders. Until a few days ago, he was just another man walking alone in the world as the others had finally given up and moved on without him.

The lone figure still dressed in black sitting serenely on a bench near the three graves held his attention. Watson made to move to acknowledge his presence as he approached. Finally Holmes simply sat himself on the other side of the bench and waited. He was not disappointed.

"There was a time I would have given anything to have you back," Watson started calmly, in a voice distant and hollowed with renewed grief. He never took his eyes off the three headstones before him. "Irrational as it may seem, I sit here and I wonder if that is not exactly what I've done."

The enormous guilt behind those words squeezed Holmes' heart painfully in a way he had never thought to know in his life. He had deserved the man's ire. He deserved the blame. He deserved much. But he had never been worthy of the love an loyalty the man had given in their years of friendship. And to know that his return would cause so much suffering...

"Why did you come back? Why now? Why..." Watson stood and turned away. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I don't know what you were expecting to find, but there isn't much left anymore."

Suddenly, Holmes grand plan to protect his friend by making him think he was dead fell to ashes. Watson walked away as Holmes stared at the three graves before him. What could he possibly say to that?

* * *

_Every night these silhouettes appear above my head_

_Little angels of the silences that climb into my bed and whisper_

_"Every time I fall asleep_

_Every time I dream_

_Why'd you leave us 'till we're only good for—_

_Waiting for you?"_

_All my sins..._

_I said that I would pay for them if I could come back to you_

_All my innocence is wasted on the dead and dreaming_

_**~Counting Crows: Angels of the Silences**  
_

A week later Holmes tossed and turned in his bed. He could no longer remember what sleep was like without the nightmares. He had learned long ago to sleep through the horrific images that tormented him since earliest childhood. But this was something altogether different. Never in his life had he thought to care again about a single person enough to let a living, half-dead man haunt him so.

Night after night images of the broken man he called friend came to visit him. Over and over they asked the same questions. He still had not found any answer worthy of the man who asked.

By this point he was certain. He should not have come back. He could have resolved this whole affair and disappeared into the shadows, sparing Watson the guilt he now felt. In his own mind, the worst part was just knowing that there was not enough left of Watson to even be angry. He had forgiven Holmes, but could not forgive himself. Of all the sins he had committed against his friend, Holmes knew in his heart this was the worst. He could not even find a way to help the man.

Holmes knew that for all his torment, it was not enough to cover even the smallest of those sins now. He would pay for them happily, if only he could find a way to help his friend.

Stealthy footsteps in the sitting room suddenly banished all other thoughts. How someone had walked up the stairs and right past his bedroom door without his notice was bad enough. But now this person dared to invade his sitting room. Worse was the sounds of said unknown person taking a seat in Watson's chair!

Silent as death, Holmes rose from his bed and cracked open his door. The gas lights had already been turned up and the same ghost of a man that had been haunting him for days sat there calmly.

"Will you speak with me?" Watson asked, not even turning to face him.

Shocked beyond comprehension, Holmes felt himself stepping around to his own fireside chair. Numb with the combination of overwhelming fear and joy, he curled into his chair, never taking his eyes off Watson.

"You still wish to speak with me?"

"Of course, dear friend. I only needed time to work things out for myself."

"You should not have to do so alone. It should never have been so."

Watson's sad smile reached his green eyes that glinted warmly in the flickering light of the fire. "And now I don't have to anymore."


	7. A Better Place

_Though once you ruled my mind,_

_I thought you'd always be there,_

_And I'll always hold onto your face,_

_But everything changes in time and_

_The answers are not always fair,_

_And I hope you've gone to a better place..._

_**~Cranberries: Cordell**_

Watson knelt in the bright spring sunshine before the grave of his beloved wife. The day could not be more beautiful in Watson's mind, as it lit the tiny features of the baby he now held in his arms. His little girl, Elizabeth. She was so tiny as just as beautiful as her mother. He could easily she how she would grow into a woman equal to her mother one day.

Mary had died in childbirth only months before. And, as Watson's heart had filled with sorrow then, it was now filled with a joy and hope for life he had found since. Unfair as the loss had been, she had left behind a life Watson could cherish and nurture. Though the grief clung to his heart, he could not prevent the smiles he felt and shared every time he looked upon his daughter.

He could not find the words for the combinations of emotions that flooded his heart to bursting as he knelt there. He wanted to tell Mary about Elizabeth's first words. He wanted to tell Elizabeth all about the mother she would never know. He wanted to give Holmes back his sister. So many things he wanted to say, but could no speak for the tightness in his chest or the lump in his throat.

But Mary was gone now.

* * *

_...Your lover and baby will cry,_

_But your presence will always remain,_

_Is this how it was meant to be?_

_You meant something more to me,_

_Than what many people will see_

_**~Cranberries: Cordell**_

Holmes gently gripped Watson's shoulder. Though he had never been good at dealing with emotions from anyone, they needed this. As the tears rolled down Watson's smiling face, he knew he had made the right decision to come back. Elizabeth's laughter gave that smile a light Holmes could not help reflecting himself.

He could feel Mary here. It still did not feel right that she was not at home with her husband and daughter. He still felt the bitter unfairness welling up within himself; even in sight of his friend's smile and his niece's curious gaze. Mary had been a sister to him he knew he had not deserved anymore than the brother he found in Watson. He would have happily traded his life at the Falls if it had meant Mary would still be alive now.

He swore to Mary silently that he would protect that smile, and the little one she had left behind.

"She's not really gone, Watson, so long as we remember her."

"I know."

Watson's smile never faltered as he rose to his feet handing Elizabeth to Holmes so he could dry his face. Holmes smiled openly feeling his own grief lessened by the little girl that smiled back at him with her mother's blue eyes.


	8. Best Advice

_My best friend gave me the best advice _

_He said each day's a gift and not a given right _

_Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind _

_And try to take the path less traveled by _

_That first step you take is the longest stride..._

_...Against the grain should be a way of life _

_What's worth the prize is always worth the fight _

_Every second counts 'cause there's no second try _

_So live like you'll never live it twice _

_Don't take the free ride in your own life _

_**~Nickleback: If Today was Your Last Day**_

"Have you gone mad?" Watson asked with something akin to horror.

"Not in the slightest, my dear fellow," Holmes shot back, grinning quite openly with excitement.

It had only been two weeks since Watson was introduced to his flatmate's chosen profession as the only consulting detective in the world. He had been only mildly surprised that the events of the Jefferson Hope case had not left him more rattled than he had expected. As a veteran, he had no desire to see further action. But it wasn't long before Holmes had again found a way to prod him out the door and into another case.

Tonight Holmes had setup a trap cleverly designed to not only gain confessions from the thugs involved, but keep them trapped for Scotland Yard. The detective was all but bouncing with excitement while Watson could not help questioning what he had gotten himself into. Still, he could feel his own body betraying those thoughts as the adrenaline took hold and he found himself also fidgeting in barely contained excitement.

"Ha!" Holmes barked a laugh, catching the glint in his flatmate's eyes. "I knew you would not want to miss out on this. Now, stop dithering and come along. You were never meant to spend your days hiding in our rooms, Doctor."

Watson chuckled softly. Holmes had once again deduced what he could not see for himself. He could not deny that some part of him craved this thrill in his life.


	9. Save Yourself

_I know your life is empty_

_And you hate to face this world alone_

_So you're searching for an angel_

_Someone who can make you whole_

_I cannot save you; I can't even save myself..._

_...I know that you've been damaged_

_Your soul has suffered such abuse_

_But I am not your savior_

_I am just as f...ed as you (I am just as f...ed as you)_

_**~Stabbing Westward: Save Yourself**_

As the miles passed by just beyond the chilled windows of the train car in which they rode, Watson began to wonder if Holmes' pouting silence wasn't the lesser of two evils in this case. In the six months since his return from the dead, Holmes had done little more than pursue his cases with a near rabid fervor. As ever, Watson had followed, with little else to do with his life. The circumstances were so similar to the first time he had moved in with Holmes, some thirteen years ago now, that he could not help appreciating the diversion the detective had provided once again to take his mind off his own problems. After a brief time spent growing accustomed to one another all over again, they had quickly fallen into a familiar and comfortable routine. Watson had willingly given up his practice to devote his undivided attention to Holmes' cases. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he'd made the right choice.

"Leave off, Holmes," Watson finally said wearily.

He'd been listening to the detective's rant for nearly an hour. The man had spread the abuse around quite thoroughly by this point. From his client to Scotland Yard and everything in between, he had been vociferous in his complaints. As ever, Watson listened with less than half an ear as their ride back toward London continued rather monotonously. He would much rather have been sleeping. After nearly three days on the case with as much sleep as Holmes, he was exhausted. The case had been less than fulfilling, and the nights spent prowling the large property in the dark and cold had left him aching. Now that the case was over, he was ready to return home to Baker Street and let the rest of it go. Apparently, Holmes had other ideas, though.

"What does it matter to you?" Holmes sneered. "It's not as if you've been listening to anything I say since we left Baker Street."

"That is not true, and you well know it," Watson tossed back, really not in the mood to turn this into an argument.

Holmes snorted derisively. "Need I remind you that even after all this time I am still battling the image of an imposter? Most of the world outside of London still thinks I'm dead. I had told you to quit writing those horrid little tales years ago."

"I've already apologized for that," Watson shot back, hoping to cut off this round before he warmed to the subject yet again. "What would you have me do?"

"Perhaps if you had listened to me and not published—"

"That's enough."

"Far from it, in my opinion. If you insist on following me around like a dog sniffing out more material for your little bits of fiction, you should at least have the decency to print the truth."

Clenching his teeth and trying to remind himself that they were both tired and feeling the effects of a disappointing case, Watson tried to keep his voice level. "And, you are no less predictable now than you were when I started publishing. Can you not at least find something new to—"

"Ha! Predictable? You follow me around in an attempt to give your pathetic existence in this world some sort of meaning. You are right back where you started, and you say that _I _am predictable? I cannot even trust you to investigate a simple question in a tavern. You've not changed in the slightest."

"I was attacked trying—"

"Had you not let yourself go so far you resembled the near dead man that moved in with me all those years ago, they would have been nothing to you. And yet you continue to wonder why it is I would not trust you..."

Only barely restraining the urge to wrap his hands around Holmes' neck, Watson fell silent. Anger was swiftly replaced with a hollow sort of pain that still throbbed deep in his soul. Holmes must have known the truth by now. Though they had never openly discussed it, he must have known the details of Mary's death that had left him so devastated. For Holmes to now verbally use this as a weapon was more than he could take.

"You arrogant, self—" Watson started, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

"—blaming me. _I _am not the one responsible for..."

Watson rose to his feet, his fists clenched as tightly as his teeth. Glowering down at those gray eyes staring back at him balefully, he carefully turned to exit the compartment.

"Running away again?" Holmes sneered in icy tones. "I would have thought better of you. But then, you've not given me any reason to believe—"

Watson slammed the door of the compartment, cutting off whatever else the detective could have thrown at him. His chest heaving with the attempts to control his emotions, Watson marched stiffly away. The desperate need to escape almost made him wish to jump off the train. Instead he marched blindly to put as much distance between himself and his friend as possible. Not for the first time this last few months he questioned that friendship; just as he had cursed Lestrade's interference that had kept him alive to greet Holmes upon his return.

Finally locating an empty compartment, Watson entered and slammed the door behind himself. For a few moments he just stood staring at the landscape rolling past the window opposite. The rocking of the train did little to soothe his frayed nerves rubbed raw by Holmes' abrasive words and abusive behavior. His breath came in ragged gasps as he found himself shaking from head to foot with the overwhelming emotions. Anger warred with hurt. Guilt warred with grief. Desolation warred with hope. Joy warred with fear.

Feeling his knees buckle, his attempt to catch himself on the edge of the bench turned into a fist slamming into the hard wood as he found himself kneeling. Closing his eyes tightly to focus on the pain as a means of banishing or at least controlling the tide of emotions, he instead found himself thrown back across the years. So very many memories all at once that he was lost to them for a time.

His first thrilling case helping to bring Jefferson Hope to justice with Holmes. His first, chaste kiss with Mary as his heart raced frantically in his chest. Standing at the altar with Mary feeling a sense of rightness unlike anything he'd ever known before. His first bitter arguments with Holmes before he had come to accept Mary as a sister. Their first stillborn child that brought Holmes only closer to them as he attempted to soothe some of their grief. Mary's dancing smile as they celebrated Christmas together by bringing the Irregulars into their home. Standing at the falls screaming Holmes' name praying for a miracle. Mary kissing away his tears as he wept in the darkness for his friend. Mary's blue eyes staring up at him in askance as they glazed in death.

This last had his own eyes flying open once more. His breathing was still deep, but at least not so ragged. Stifling his urge to scream, to tear apart the cabin around him, he forced himself to a sitting position on the bench. Burying his face in his hands, he once more tried to put these things away. He had forgiven Holmes, if for no other reason than to have him back. He'd forgiven the man for leaving him behind, for not trusting him with the secret of his survival, for Mary's murder at the hands of Moriarty's thugs bent on revenge, for not being there when Watson had needed his brother, for...everything. He would not go back on that, even now.

But he could not forgive himself.

Holmes was right. It was not his fault. He had done his part by leaving them behind to think he was dead. He had been chased alone across the continents to keep them safe. Watson had failed. He had failed to protect his friend, failed to be there when he was needed, failed to protect his wife, failed to bring the murderers to justice. Though Lestrade had been there while he was recovering in the hospital, he still felt it was not enough. Never before had Watson so badly wanted to be the one to mete out justice. But Lestrade had seen to it that they paid their due nonetheless. Then he had ensured Watson would not follow Mary.

How fitting it now felt that his life had once again become a punishment. He survived where he should have died. He had thought, briefly, that perhaps he could find something of life worth living when Holmes returned. Instead, he found his failures being brought back to the fore in all their agonizing clarity. And that was why Watson could not bring himself to say or do more than attempt to stop Holmes when he turned his anger on his partner. Watson knew he deserved it all and more.

By this point he was slumping forward over his knees. His heartbeat slowing to normal and his breathing deep and regular, he checked himself to ensure no traces of this brief loss of control were visible. He had taken a page out of Holmes' own book in having learned to give little or no visible signs of the thoughts that plagued his every waking moment. He only just realized they were nearing London. Soon the train would be pulling in to the station and he would have to face his return to Baker Street with Holmes. Not knowing what to expect at this point, he summoned what control he had left over his emotions and headed back toward their compartment.

* * *

_My life has been a nightmare_

_My soul is fractured to the bone_

_If I must be lonely_

_I think I'd rather be alone..._

_(I think I'd rather be alone)_

_You cannot save me_

_You can't even save yourself_

_I cannot save you; I can't even save myself_

_Save yourself_

_So just save yourself_

_**~Stabbing Westward: Save Yourself**_

Moments after Watson had exited the compartment, Holmes had found his irritation beyond a boiling point. Not normally given to physical expressions of emotional outbursts, he found himself wishing for a target. Watson had so inconveniently vacated their compartment. Briefly he wondered what had happened that his friend barely bothered to give back anymore. He sorely missed the days when Watson would give as good as he got. Even when the two had ended up in a couple of minor scuffles in the sitting room he had appreciated the diversion.

Growling to himself, Holmes also vacated the compartment. Not caring where he ended up, just wanting to pace, he began stomping down the train. He was not aware he had taken the same route as his friend until he heard the slamming of a compartment door further down. Even then, he wasn't entirely certain until he crept up to the window of the door. The sight that greeted him successfully doused his remaining anger and frustration. The familiar outline of his thinner, worn down companion was standing rigidly with his arms wrapped around himself as if trying to contain something only he could see.

Recalling his earlier words, Holmes felt his heart twisting painfully with the guilt. He had so poorly used his friend these last few months. He wondered again at the man's capacity for forgiveness. His words came back to haunt him as the callous cruelty gouged deep furrows of bleeding guilt across his conscience. He knew he had no right to blame Watson for Mary's death. But he had never been one to deal with emotions. Not since the death of his own mother at such a young age had he felt a loss so keenly. Having not known the circumstances of Mary's death for so long had only made the guilt upon learning all the worse.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Holmes reached toward the door to open it and apologize to the man who now seemed only inches from coming apart. Putting aside his self-loathing he reached the little handle with a trembling hand. Moments later he froze as Watson had gone to his knees with a fist to the bench loud enough to make Holmes wince in sympathy. For a few moments he could only stare as his friend quietly came apart in tearless agony.

He had brought Watson to this. He had secretly wanted to see him hurt, see him angry. All those contained emotions he had denied himself these last few months since his return had once again come to the fore and he needed to make someone else feel as miserable as himself. Like some sort of mirror, it had always been Watson who reflected the goodness within himself. Now Watson was a dark mirror. He could find little or no light to reflect back at Holmes. Holmes wondered, not for the first time, if his own darkness had consumed his friend in his absence.

No, he did not deserve his friend's forgiveness. He would not put the man in a position to offer it.

Backing away silently, Holmes returned to his own compartment. Wrapped in these miserable thoughts he let the darkness take him. Soon they would be home. Maybe there he could indulge in his little vice and explore these things for himself; and stop pushing them off on his dearest friend. Watson deserved better, he knew. But he could not find it within himself to make his partner and brother see that. Some part of him wanted Watson to share is misery. A greater part wanted Watson to live for himself and get away from the darkness Holmes could feel eating them both alive from the inside out.

Not for the first time, he wondered if surviving the Falls had been worth the price paid in blood, guilt, and grief for the both of them.


	10. Mirrors

_In a mirror of you_

_Reflections of you_

_You're showing what you feel like inside_

_Need the power of two_

_Just me and you_

_An image that you hold in your mind_

_Sometimes you're wrong and then_

_Sometimes you're right_

_You don't expect me to put up a fight_

_I'm sick and tired of all of your lies_

_I'm sick and tired and I'm saying good bye..._

_**~Gravity Kills: Goodbye**_

"...pathetic waste of time and flesh! You are a pitiable excuse for a..."

Sitting only inches away from where Holmes paced back and forth in front of the fire, Watson shook with rage. What had taken place on the train earlier had been bad enough. But the moment Holmes had discovered Mrs. Hudson gone for a week or more, his temper had piqued again. Once more that pent-up anger and frustration turned itself on his partner, friend, and brother. Watson had only barely managed to contain his outburst earlier. Now...

"...bothered to even—"

Watson had gone from sitting to swinging in less time than it had taken Holmes to swing around in his pacing. Whatever else the man had been about to say was cut off abruptly as Watson's fist silenced him brutally. All the power of all the pent up emotions he had been feeling for so long were released in that one strike. But it was nowhere near enough. Even seeing Holmes' tall frame flying backward head first to fall over his own chair and roll into a semi-conscious heap was not enough.

"_You _are the pathetic one. You are a coward. I can see you so clearly, yet you cannot see _yourself!_ You are too frightened of your own feelings to face them. So you turn them on _me!" _

Watson snarled savagely, thoroughly enjoying the look of sheer horror on Holmes' face as the blood flowed freely from the gash on his cheek. Suddenly the heat drained from his anger. As had happened in the past when facing those to whom he would gladly mete out his own form of justice, Watson's rage cooled to an icy combination of loathing and disgust. He knelt to within inches of Holmes' face, ensuring those gray eyes could see to the depths of his own soul.

"You _need_ me to show you what you are, what you are feeling. Do you like what you see?" he asked, in a voice so cold as to make Holmes shudder.

Holmes was paralyzed. The look of horror only deepened into something so deep Watson could not fathom it beyond the darkness in those gray eyes. For nearly a minute there was only the silence of absolute understanding that stretched out between them. Finally, nodding, Watson regained his feet.

"I thought not," Watson whispered. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but you _will not_ turn those lies on me. Goodbye, Holmes."

And, with that simple parting, he left the sitting room and his other half behind.

* * *

_You're a shadow of me_

_What I used to be_

_I'm fading as the light dims outside_

_I, I know what you need_

_Because I can see_

_I'm taking over thoughts in your mind_

_Some time's you're wrong and then_

_Some time's you're right_

_You're in the dark_

_So I'll turn on the light_

_I'm sick and tired of all of your lies_

_I'm f...ing tired and I'm saying good bye_

_**~Gravity Kills: Goodbye**_

Holmes had been in such a state of shock over Watson's outburst and the truth of what he'd said he could only lay there. The numerous bruises that had formed across his back, face, and legs from such a tumble over the furniture at the force of the blow were nothing compared to the bruises that now painted his heart and soul. Dimly he realized the day had come and nearly gone in this time. This darkness that had consumed his thoughts was not purely his own. It was a crushing darkness that made his own whining and desire for cocaine to combat it seem petty, shallow. For the first time he opened himself up to all he had seen inside his Watson since his return.

And, for the first time he began to understand the depth of his abuse.

As the sun was setting he found himself in the last place he ever thought his feet would take him. But his heart knew where he belonged now. There, kneeling on the wife of his beloved Mary was his Watson. Even after all these hours, the man was still sobbing silently; quaking miserably from the tide of emotions that he was now releasing.

Holmes could not help envying the man.

Somewhere long ago in a lost childhood drenched in blood and horror, Holmes could dimly remember a time when he had once been the same. Now, as the light dimmed all around them and the darkness of a different kind stole across the world around them, Holmes knew. At last he could allow himself to understand his Watson and all he carried so silently upon those same shaking shoulders.

Kneeling down beside his friend, Holmes took hold of what was left of this man that had been his loyal companion. Though they would likely part ways forever after tonight, he would give him this. He would give him the one thing left of his childhood he could remember from his own lost days. Though there were no tears of his own left to be shed, he could give what strength he had.

When Watson fought to pull away, Holmes held tightened his grip. When Watson began to push violently, Holmes held on. When the pushing hands turned to fists, Holmes absorbed the abuse. When Watson's fists failed, he turned to cursing. Holmes accepted these. When Watson's curses failed, he fell to begging. Holmes refused to let him go. When Watson had expended all he had and was left a hollow, empty shell, Holmes gave him back himself.

"You can lie to me all you wish, dear friend. But I will not allow you to hate yourself. I have brought you to this."

Finally releasing his grip on Watson, Holmes stood. His back straight, he stared down at the man curled in on himself. "If you wish to persist in this belief that you are to blame, then here we part ways. Goodbye, Watson."

In the ethereal mists of twilight, Holmes exited the cemetery; leaving behind what had once been the better part of himself that he had destroyed so utterly. Now there was nothing left of himself he could claim as good, from within or without. And now he was just too tired to care anymore. He could not remember a time when the dark streets of London and all the possible dangers seemed so very welcoming. He was truly disappointed to have made it back to Baker Street alive.

The sight of his Watson beside the fire, waiting for him to return, was something he had never expected to see again. For a moment, he hesitated. The light in those green eyes that found his hollow gray ones reflected something Holmes had thought left behind in that cemetery. The silence that stretched out then possessed a warmth and comfort that stirred new life and hope within his heart as he at last saw the return of the Watson he had known and cherished as partner, friend, and brother.


	11. The Side I'll Never Show

_Doctor, can't you see that I'm trying_

_The explanation just hasn't been found_

_Doctor, no one knows when I'm crying_

_I slam a door when the feeling comes 'round and_

_Every cloud has a silver lining_

_Every doubt has an answer, I know_

_But in my heart there's no light shining_

_Just emptiness and faded glow_

_Raining down on the side I'll never show_

_**~Dream Syndicate: The Side I'll Never Show**_

It was not the first time Watson had seen his friend, flatmate, and partner in this condition. He did not doubt it wouldn't be the last, either. For Sherlock Holmes, idleness really was a torment. It gave him too much time to crawl into his own mind and heart. Watson could not help pitying the man. Angry though he was at the use of such drugs, the need to avoid the darkness within was something he could understand perhaps a little too well. They had not lived together for very long, but he had come to at least understand this side of his friend. It pained him to know just how little he could do for the man. But, sitting idly by and saying nothing was worse.

"What is it this time?" Watson the physician started off in a tone of mingled disappointment and anger.

Those gray eyes flickered away from those tormented internal thoughts for one brief moment. "Which would you prefer? The cocaine or the morphine?" Holmes returned in a voice so hollow and apathetic it seemed almost dead.

"Holmes..."

"No, Doctor," Holmes continued, his vacant eyes staring off into the darkness, "please say nothing further at this time. Just..."

Sensing there was so much more to this emotionless plea, Watson sat waiting in silence. Only after several minutes had passed this way did Holmes finally begin to speak once more. And, when he did, Watson could almost wish he had not.

"Why?" Holmes asked, those gray eyes pleading with his friend. "Why does it feel like this? Why do I have to feel?"

"Oh, Holmes..."

Watson could find no answer for his friend. Of all lives he had touched in his work as a doctor, this was the one he wished the most he could heal. He no longer doubted Holmes had a heart. He had seen as much for himself through the violin sessions. But now he could understand why his friend so strongly desired to be an unfeeling thinking machine. Anyone who could sink so deeply—_feel_ so very much—would suffer greatly in such times as these.

Instead of an answer, he settled in to wait it out. Sooner or later Holmes would battle these feelings into submission. Until he did, there was nothing more Watson could do for the man save be there.

* * *

_Doctor, it's the hardest season_

_I said wait for the dam to let go_

_Doctor, without the slightest reason_

_I've become a man that I don't want to know and_

_Every cloud has a silver lining_

_Every doubt has an answer, I know_

_But in my heart there's no light shining_

_Just emptiness and faded glow_

_Raining down on the side I'll never show_

_**~Dream Syndicate: The Side I'll Never Show**_

After ten years of these black fits, it never got any easier for Watson. He stood by helplessly and watched the declined and then the long days and nights of darkness. Mary always forgave him for his extended absences, and he blessed her for her understanding. But this one was bleaker than he had seen Holmes in some time. He could not understand, not fully. But, as ever, he held on to his friend as a silent companion through these episodes.

Tonight, he watched as Holmes lay sprawled on the floor in front of the fire staring off into the darkness within his own heart and soul. As Watson shifted again on the settee trying to find a comfortable position to relieve the aching in his shoulder Holmes finally stirred for the first time in hours.

"Why do you stay?"

Watson hesitated in his movements, wondering if that hollow voice really held a note of something more, or if that was just wishful thinking on his part.

"Because you should not be alone," Watson offered, hesitantly.

"I would not do so for you," Holmes returned in a voice still vague and detached, but filled with self-loathing.

"I have never asked you to do so."

"Nor would you."

"No."

"Then why do you stay? There is nothing here for you. You do not belong in this place."

Watson needed no clarification. "Because it is my honor to know the other side of you that you have shared with me and no other. It is only fair that I share in this, as well."

This had the effect of turning Holmes around fully. Those gray eyes were still glazed, but held a distinct sparkle of surprise. Watson gave a brief smile as Holmes appeared to turn this over in his mind. Curiosity and contemplation turned into a gratitude and understanding in those features that required no further words. Turning back to their own activities, such as they were, they resumed their briefly interrupted vigil. As always, the darkness would pass, and Watson would be there for that too.


	12. Comfort

_**A/N:** Eh, maybe it doesn't fit. But it's what hit me, so I'm going with it for now. I may take another stab at this one later. _

* * *

_I liked the way my hand looked on your head_

_In the presence of my knuckles_

_And the beauty of this vision alone_

_Just like yesterday's sunset_

_Has been perverted by the sentimental_

_And mistaken for love..._

_**~Live: Iris**_

In the ten months that the two young men had been living together, Watson's flatmate—the world's only private consulting detective—had surprised him on numerous occasions. From the habits he kept to the twists of his mind to the clients he entertained to the many varied disguised he employed; he was an enigma that Watson could not hope to puzzle out in his entirety. He was far from giving up on the task he had set himself; especially since being introduced to the man's choice of profession several months ago. However, there was one aspect of the man that Watson found as utterly predictable as any other he had ever encountered. This both amused and disturbed him.

Holmes was sick.

It was not the first time the man had run himself to exhaustion in his pursuit of justice. But it was the first time Watson had found him doing so while frighteningly ill. In the first couple of days it appeared nothing more than a cold that Holmes had assured him would pass. Despite the doctor's advice to rest and give his body a chance to combat the illness, the detective had doggedly pursued his case even in the cold, wet weather. Quietly, Watson had prepared for the inevitable.

After the wrapping up of the case at Scotland Yard, Holmes had all but collapsed in the cab. Watson had been woken in the early hours of the morning practically carrying the thin, feverish man to his bed. His frustration for the detective was clear as he grumbled and berated the man. As he had feared, Holmes was soon in the throes of delirium brought about by a raging fever. Holmes thrashed and cried out as Watson attempted to bring the fever down. In the worst of those moments, he found that his touch and a few, softly spoken words again settled the man.

In so many ways the detective was unique. But, in this, he was exactly like every other human being. In his misery and delirium, he sought and accepted the comfort he would deny himself at any other time. The physical contact he loathed when in control was craved and welcomed. As Holmes again began to thrash, Watson laid his hand upon the man's fevered brow. He watched the detective settle once more into peaceful sleep.

For the first time Watson wondered what he had ever done to earn such trust from the man.


	13. Leave Out All the Rest

_**A/N: **Not entirely sure about this. Does it work?  
_

* * *

_I dreamed I was missing _

_You were so scared _

_But no one would listen _

_Cause no one else cared _

_After my dreaming _

_I woke with this fear _

_What am I leaving _

_When I'm done here... _

_**~Linkin Park: Leave Out All the Rest**_

Watson could not be certain how long he'd slept, but it was more than long enough in his opinion. It was not the first time he'd had this dream, and he doubted it would be the last. He was only thankful that Holmes was nowhere in sight as he spent several minutes contemplating this dream yet again. He could not determine if it was a result of one of their recent, more disturbing cases; or if there was something deeper and more personal.

He suspected the latter.

As he rose from his fireside chair to stare out the window at the bustling streets below, Watson's hand fell upon the recently acquired watch that now adorned his waistcoat. It had only been a couple of weeks ago he had been informed that he was now the last living member of his family. The idea itself was not as much of a burden to his heart as the fact that the passing of his elder brother had meant so very little to him and so many others. His brother had left behind some debts and a few personal items. Anything of value beyond the watch was already long gone.

Not for the first time since he'd learned of his brother's passing, Watson wondered about his own life. What had he accomplished thus far of note? Beyond the one publication of his first case with Holmes, he had little else, himself. And, as Holmes had warned him, it was not very well received by the readers.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie with a start.

"Alright there, Watson?" Holmes asked, eyeing him with something akin to concern.

Quickly Watson summoned a reassuring grin. Then, as he eyed his friend a little more closely, it became more genuine. He realized that the burden of legacy was not one he would need to concern himself with now. He had Holmes. Should anything untoward happen to himself, Holmes and the friendship they had forged that changed them both would be legacy enough.

* * *

_...Don't be afraid _

_I've taken my beating _

_I've shared what I made _

_I'm strong on the surface _

_Not all the way through _

_I've never been perfect _

_But neither have you..._

_**~Linkin Park: Leave Out All the Rest**_

Holmes lay helplessly on the settee as Watson continued to curse the detective while he worked. He could not believe the man's stupidity at coming all the way across London to seek care instead of a hospital. Holmes would be lucky if he did not lose his life, let alone his leg, at this point. Even now, as he worked on the leg carefully sitting on the coffee table before him, he wished for a hospital. But there was no time. He'd only just managed to get the bleeding under control, and Holmes was already in shock from the loss of blood.

Despite the fear that made his heart race, Watson's hands were steady as they worked. Holmes mused upon this for a moment as he watched his friend. But the terror-stricken countenance disturbed him. He did not want to interrupt his friend's concentration, but he felt the need to do something.

"It will be alright, Watson," Holmes attempted to say in his weakened voice.

Those terror-filled green eyes refused to meet his own. "It had better be, dear friend."

"And _that_ is exactly why it will be," Holmes replied, not able to better vocalize the faith he had in Watson.

Holmes knew that without Watson, he was little more than nothing. He had willing shared his life and career with the man. Together they formed a functioning whole out of otherwise dissimilar parts. They accepted each other and all their flaws, perhaps the stronger for those flaws.

Briefly, Holmes wondered why he never said these things to Watson. In the moment before darkness took him, he could not help wondering why he'd never told his friend how much Watson meant to him.

* * *

_When my time comes (Watson)_

_Forget the wrong that I've done (Holmes)_

_Help me leave behind some (Watson)_

_Reasons to be missed (Holmes)_

_Don't resent me (Watson)_

_And when you're feeling empty (Holmes) _

_Keep me in your memory (Watson)_

_Leave out all the rest (Holmes)_

_Leave out all the rest (Watson)_

_**~Linkin Park: Leave Out All the Rest**_

Watson lay in his bed in the early hours of the morning wondering why it was he suddenly felt so disturbed in the cool morning air within the cottage he now shared with Holmes. They had been living here in quiet retirement for some years. They had long ago left their lives of adventure and danger behind them.

And then he realized what had woken him. His own body. He could feel it in every fiber of his being. He was shutting down. This did not displease him. He only wished not to leave behind his dearest friend and companion. In a voice he thought far too weak to carry, he called for Holmes.

Holmes woke with a disturbing feeling in the cool morning wondering what had woken him. He had been sleeping more peacefully than he had in some days. As he strained his ears in an attempt to grasp what had woken him, he heard the faintest voice from the next room. In an instant he had thrown back his covers and was shuffling through the door to Watson's room. There, those green eyes were bright as ever, though the body seemed somehow diminished. In the seconds it took him to cross the room to his friend's bedside, he knew.

Taking Watson's hand in both his gnarled ones, they shared a look that said so very many things that words could never hope to achieve. Though Holmes did not want to say goodbye, he could not help the memories he re-lived in those few moments.

"Watson..."

"I already have, dear friend...long ago."

"Thank you," Holmes replied, feeling a sense of peace settling over them.

Watson thought back over all the countless adventures they had shared. For one moment, he was a young man again, his hands trembling as he scribbled out his first novel with Holmes' grudging approval. Many times he had doubted the wisdom of this over the years. But, thanks to his dear friend, he now had something of himself to leave behind.

"Don't worry, Holmes," Watson told him in a voice a little above a whisper. "I will wait with patience."

"That you have always done," Holmes said around the lump in his throat.

Unable to speak, Watson's eyes gleamed and his lips twitched in what Holmes thought was meant to be a reassuring smile. Then those eyes closed forever. Holmes continued to hold that hand until long after it was cold. For once, he allowed his emotions free reign as he remembered all they had had that was worth remembering. All else ceased to matter or exist for him.


	14. A Moment

_**A/N: **Totally meaningless bit of fluff, but it just absolutely slapped me sideways when I heard this song again for the first time in years. Why I saw this, I don't know. But it fit, and I love it. So I thought I'd share it. If you're unfamiliar with the song, google search the link below to hear it. _

_ watch?v=vmrbxMGO8tk _

* * *

_In this world of circumstance_

_Children never fear forever_

_And this moment that enchants_

_Someday we may both remember..._

_...There is time in every word_

_There are words in every reason_

_And these notes that are unheard_

_One day they may find their season_

_**~Trans-Siberian Orchestra: The Moment**_

Holmes was fed up.

In the last three days he'd been away from home working on a case absolutely nothing had gone well. The fact that he'd solved the case to everyone's satisfaction had been all well and good. But the three days of compounding annoyances and irritations had frayed his nerves almost to the breaking point. Now, he just wanted a pipe, a brandy, a fire, his chair in the sitting room, and his family; and not necessarily in that order.

Shivering violently from head to foot in sopping wet clothes dripping all over the foyer, he quietly closed the door behind him and crept up the stairs toward his bedroom. The sound of a muffled voice on the other side of the sitting room door instantly caught his ears as he paused. It was late, though not unreasonably so. However, with Emily usually tucked into bed relatively early, it wasn't that often that he would hear Watson in the sitting room unless Holmes fetched him. Watson tended to like to stay close to his daughter at night in case she still suffered from nightmares.

Hearing the note of his friend's voice turn from speech into something more musical, Holmes crept toward the sitting room door. What he heard next had his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his dripping hairline as his eyes widened in amazement. In those few minutes as Watson sang a lullaby to his adopted daughter, he could not have moved from that spot had all of Scotland Yard come running up the stairs. The man's hidden depths and talents would never cease to amaze him.

Holmes found that despite the shivering from the cold and wet, he was warmer now than the fire could ever have done. Carefully, he opened the door to see Watson rocking Emily carefully in his arms on the settee. In the doorway, Holmes just watched and listened; imprinting this memory into his mind for the next time he found himself in such a miserable situation. Because, no matter what London or the rest of the world would throw at him, he would always have this to come home to when it was over.


	15. Brother

_I find my brother in there_

_Deep in my heart_

_I find my brother in there_

_Hold in my arms_

_I love you_

_And if I seem too quiet now_

_There are no words_

_To tell you how_

_I love you_

_._

_I often feel_

_Like the prodigal son_

_Take all I need_

_Giving back none_

_Our beauty shows_

_In such different ways_

_You're like the light behind the fog_

_So soft_

_But still you burn my eyes away_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Brother**_

"...two weeks, Holmes."

The quiet words laced with a combination of fear, hurt, and anger were enough to at least penetrate the unending black abyss that claimed his every waking moment. Those hollow gray eyes devoid of life finally turned to locate the source of that voice. Though he said nothing, Holmes at least gave that much recognition of his presence.

"Please, Holmes, tell me. What can I do? What can I say to help you?"

Those gray eyes cast themselves back toward the fire as if already having forgotten that other presence here in the never ending darkness of his mind and soul. It wasn't really that he had forgotten. It was that someone like Watson didn't belong here in this darkness. Better that he kept it contained within himself than to share such a horrible thing.

"Nothing," that empty, lifeless voice finally whispered.

For a moment those sturdy shoulders slumped as if in defeat. Then Watson rose from where he knelt in front of his friend on the settee. He rose to his full height, taking in the scene he had witnessed many times in the past, though this was the first since his marriage to Mary. He disappeared for a moment to send word with Mrs. Hudson to his wife. Returning to the sitting room, he divested himself of his coat, hat, and other items.

Moments later Holmes was shocked out of his thoughts as Watson lifted his legs on the settee just enough to slip beneath them. Once seated, Watson placed those legs back in his lap and sat back to join Holmes in silent contemplation of the fire. For several seconds those gray eyes bored into the side of Watson's head. Though Watson never turned his eyes away from the fire before them, his lips twitched in a bit of a grin.

"Since you've removed the chairs and pulled the settee into their place, it is only fair that you at least allow me the comfort of sharing the fire, dear chap," Watson explained lightly.

Those boring, steely gray eyes softened into something else entirely. Shifting his legs to remove the pressure from Watson's old wound, they resumed their silent companionship. But, already, it seemed the darkness was lifting.

* * *

_I find my brother in there_

_Deep in my heart_

_I find my brother in there_

_Hold in my arms_

_I love you_

_And if I seem too quiet now_

_There are no words to show you how_

_I love you_

_._

_So much has changed _

_And so much has happened these years_

_But still find that you_

_Are waiting here_

_We have a bond_

_That nothing can change_

_And still I find_

_A peace of mind_

_Whenever I hear your name_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Brother**_

The silence stretched out for an eternity. On this beautiful sunny day there seemed something mocking about the world feeling so alive around him. Even the warmth of the bearing down on his black-clad, thin shoulders mocked the cold, empty feeling as he stared down at the freshly turned earth of this new grave. Somehow, it always seemed to him that despite the difference in age, he should be the one to go first.

An automobile accident. So quick. So meaningless. So utterly wasteful.

He found his mind could not quite comprehend the level of loss he was now feeling.

The silence stretched out as the minutes, or perhaps hours, rolled by inexorably. The world beyond the cemetery continued. The ebb and flow of life waxed and waned in the world beyond those gates. But here time could stop. Here time had no meaning. The rest of London and the world could change and grow all it wanted. It was not as if he recognized most of it anymore. Suddenly, all those technological advancements and marvels he had witnessed made the world he lived in seem crude by comparison to what he had known. Holmes' little cottage far away from all of this sounded more appealing than it once had. Now he could understand, at least.

Finally, Watson pulled himself out of his reverie long enough to acknowledge the silent presence that had been his companion through so much, even now. That long, thin arm draped comforting around his shoulders offered silent support and strength he so desperately needed now. Putting his arm around Holmes' tired, bowed shoulders in return, he could at least be thankful that he was not alone. He still had his brother.

Watson flashed a brief smile, shifting his arm around Holmes' shoulders so they would both be more comfortable. No words were needed. Their continued vigil here at Mrs. Watson's grave spoke more than any words could ever hope. Holmes could wait until the end of time, for his dear friend suffering the loss of another wife.

"Thank you, Holmes."

"Of course, Watson."


	16. From Heaven I

_**A/N: **Okay, this one took on a life of its own and became way too long. So I'm breaking it up.  
_

* * *

_...Into this room he swaggers, like he's_

_God's own messenger_

_Change the name of my brother_

_Change the things that he said_

_Says that he speaks to him_

_But he never even knew the man_

_I'd give my life for him_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly From Heaven**_

* * *

Watson stared in near disbelief at the age-worn face of the enemy invading his private practice. Alone in his consulting rooms, it was all he could do to stand rather than reach for his gun. He did not need to ask what had brought the man here.

"How_ dare _you, sir!" Watson hissed, clenching his fists at his side.

Colonel Moriarty sneered in a way that reminded Watson of poisonous oil sliding over an age roughened surface. He did not doubt that Professor Moriarty had been the colder, more calculating of the two villains; but the Moriarty he now faced was by far the more venomous. In many ways, the two were equally dangerous. But right now, he really could care less. And the man's next words did absolutely nothing to dispel the rising urge toward violence he now felt.

"I dare nothing, Dr. Watson. I only wish to see Mr. Holmes brought to justice for the murder of my brother. Would you not wish the same?"

"Sherlock Holmes_ was _my brother, and Professor Moriarty murdered _him!_"

Though Watson struggled to keep his voice to something less than a roar, Colonel Moriarty continued to pace with some amusement around the little consulting room. The raging fear and hatred that battled in Watson's heart was only further compounded when the man's sickeningly amused expression fell on the last words his dearest friend had penned only moments before plunging to his death. The fear of the further damage this man could do to the reputation of his deceased friend was incinerated by the heat of the rage that possessed him as the man opened his mouth to comment.

Before Moriarty could say one word, Watson had come around his desk. He could not remember the last time he'd come so close to losing control of his temper. But if this man was going to bully his way in here, then Watson would be more than happy to show him back out the door in ways he had learned from many nights spent prowling the alleys of London with Holmes. He was almost disappointed, however, when the consulting room door opened once again without so much as a courtesy knock as Lestrade let himself in. It was one thing to assault a man for trespass, but was another to do so in front of a Scotland Yard inspector; even if said inspector was a friend.

Somehow Watson managed to find the strength to stifle his anger as Lestrade's expression became decidedly bemused.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Lestrade offered, the glint in his dark eyes alerting Watson that he knew exactly what had been about to take place. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything too important."

Moriarty's scowl had been so fast one would almost think they had imagined it. It quickly became a mix of bored disinterest and only the slightest disappointment. "Not at all, Inspector. We were just discussing the murderer—my apologies—Mr. Holmes' involvement in the death of my brother."

Watson's already ramrod straight spine stiffened further as he resisted the urge to silence the man in a more permanent manner. Lestrade, having expected as much, gave up all pretenses of ignorance or amusement as he stepped smoothly between the two. Despite his shorter stature, the consulting room itself seemed to shrink as he brought he full weight of his not inconsiderable anger to bear.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh come now, Inspector. You, of all people, should know the twisted ways and misconstrued truths of that amateur. It was only a matter of time before his covering of so many petty crimes escalated to murder. I am only surprised that it took you and the rest of Scotland Yard so long to realize."

Watson's growl behind him distracted Lestrade long enough to prevent him from responding before the Colonel could continue to pile insults to these already injurious accusations.

"He really was a genius, I must admit. He and my brother worked together for many years. It's a pity Mr. Holmes got greedy. Had my brother not sent me the letters of Mr. Holmes' betrayal, the world would never know—"

Professionalism be damned. Lestrade had no need to restrain the doctor at this point, for it was his own fist that quite effectively silenced Moriarty. The blood that sprayed did nothing to diminish the twisted smile the man threw as he watched Lestrade being restrained by the doctor. Quite calmly, he took out his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood, his eyes alight with some sadistic pleasure.

It was enough that Lestrade had done what Watson had desired from the moment he set eyes on the older man. And he was not about to let the inspector sacrifice his career. After pulling Lestrade aside, he turned to face Moriarty with more calm than he could have imagined only moments ago.

"You come here to call Mr. Holmes a liar and a murder. You accuse him of twisting his deductions to cover up crimes you say he committed. You even dare to say you had correspondence with him directly. You know _nothing."_

"Quite the—"

"No! I will hear no more of your twisted schemes. I do not claim to understand what end you are attempting to achieve. I have not made any attempts to publicly denounce your brother for his crimes to the world. I had not intended to do so. But if you persist on blackening the name of the greatest mind of our time—a man willing to give his life to see justice done—then you leave me no choice.

"I can only pity your lack of understanding in what it means to love a brother enough to be willing to sacrifice your own life for his. As, I have no doubts,_ that _is what this conversation was truly about. There is nothing more you can take from me, now"

For several seconds the silence in the room settled as if a tangible weight. The smirking expressions of amusement on the colonel's face had long since faded to a black scowl so fierce Watson's suspicions were confirmed. He had not worked alongside the greatest detective of this or any century to not have learned to read at least some things. The man's military stiff posture and glances at Lestrade only further proved his theories, now that he was calm enough to see them for himself.

"You malign me, Doctor. I came here in the hopes of brokering peace," he finally answered, the slick grin firmly back in place.

Watson nodded sadly. He had known that Lestrade's presence would prevent the man from fulfilling his intended purpose for this visit. He had known, somewhere beyond the anger, that his life was in danger here. Had Lestrade not appeared when he did, he was certain Lestrade would be having his own conversation alone with the Colonel over his corpse.

And, the only thing that surprised him was his sudden, fierce will to live the moment he realized how close he had come to death. Following the loss of the man he called brother, he had also lost his children and his wife. Even just hours ago, he would not have thought himself to ever find a reason to live again. Now directly confronted with the man who would dare to call Holmes a murderer, he found his purpose. He would see the truth told and published. He knew his life would be the cost. But if it cleared Holmes' name, then he would give it gladly.

With this sudden fire lighting his green eyes dangerously, Watson again faced the enemy. In that moment, Moriarty's eyes lit again with renewed enthusiasm. This battle may have been lost. But they both knew it was far from over.

"I trust you will see yourself out," Watson acknowledged this minor victory with as much civility as he could summon.

"Good day, gentlemen," the Colonel said pleasantly around his still bleeding nose.

Lestrade didn't even wait for the door to close before he started his questions. Watson waved him off. He had more important things to do now.


	17. From Heaven II

_**A/N: **Nope, not done yet. Sheesh, this thing is long.  
_

* * *

_Like water through my hands_

_You'd give him any ending_

_But if he's all you say_

_Would he fly from Heaven_

_To this world again_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly From Heaven**_

* * *

_It's always the same. Watson realizes this is a dream. He doesn't remember when it was he fell asleep. He wasn't supposed to be sleeping. He was at his desk, writing. But even knowing it was a dream would not make it any easier. Knowing how this nightmare would progress still could not prepare him for the agony._

_ His war-wounded leg screamed at him to slow his pace as he raced up the path toward the falls. He ignored it. His similarly wounded shoulder stabbed dull pain as he ran, heedless of all but his destination. He ignored it. His heart raced painfully in his chest as air burned in and out of overtaxed lungs. He ignored it. The fear that gave him strength to ignore these things also consumed his every sensation, every thought. His only desire now was to get there before it was too late. _

_ But it was already too late. He knew that before he'd even begun this dream. It was two years too late. It never stopped him from trying. It never stopped him from racing back up the path to where half of his being had died in the hopes that just once he could stop this from happening. As he had so many times in the path, he spared some part of his terror-stricken mind to pray once again that he would not be too late. _

_ Something was different. _

_ This time as he raced around the final bend where the roaring water of the falls over the rock ledges came into view, he was not alone. Thinking that maybe today was the day he could end this nightmare once and for all he raced toward the small group. Just beyond them the sinister mists of the overwhelming falls rose up. Like some sort of living entity, it swirled around the group of people. The rushing water sounded like the echoes of sadistic laughter. He never took his eyes off them, certain it would be different this time._

_ His foot caught on something and he sprawled in the grass. Ignoring the searing agony spreading up his leg from his broken ankle, he turned his eyes back toward his goal. He screamed from the depths of his soul as the mist took Holmes over the edge. Crawling frantically toward the others, he continued. Some part of him still certain he could make a difference. _

_ So great was the agony of watching the mist consume his infant children that he almost did not feel the pain of the rock that shattered his arm, slowing him further. _

_ Mary smiled at him serenely as he continued to crawl. _

_ And then the mist yanked her backward into the yawning cavern the waters had cut over milennia. Something beyond his range of sight landed on his other leg crushing it into a bloody mass. With his one remaining usable appendage, he continued to drag himself toward the cliff. Now it was a matter of joining them, not saving them. He could hear their screams in the mists below as he screamed back at the mists to take him, too. The waterfall continued to laugh mockingly. _

_ "Did you really believe it would be so easy, Doctor?"_

_ The mocking voice of Colonel Moriarty froze him in his place. From where he had been dragging his useless body through the muck, he raised his head proudly to meet the eyes of this new enemy. Moriarty acknowledged this little show of defiance by obligingly kneeling down to join him in the wet grass and mud. _

_ "Is he really worth all this? The man you call brother abandoned you. He left you alone to wallow in your guilt and grief. He left you behind because an enemy meant more to him."_

_ Moriarty's dark-filled eyes alight with wicked glee at the sight of Watson's suffering bored into his soul. The words of his own guilty conscience now being spoken aloud for the first time from the lips of his enemy made him recoil in horror. Yes, this was a nightmare. It wasn't real. But those words being regurgitated from the depths of his own soul were more real than he wished to believe. _

_ "Turn back, Doctor."_

_ For one brief moment he let his vision glimpse the serene beauty of the path he had just traversed only minutes ago. He knew if he turned back now his body would be healed and he would never return to this place; awake or asleep. It would all be over. Only he could heal these wounds, and it was so very simple. _

_ The familiar laughter from behind Moriarty's kneeling form reverberated across his heart and soul, resonating painfully off the waves of grief he had suffered. He almost did not dare to look for fear that it was a lie. He tore his eyes away from the path he had almost considered an option to find his dearest friend and brother standing there, facing off against Colonel Moriarty with a delighted smile. The scowl that now graced Moriarty's face was of the purest venom. _

_ "You do not know my Watson so well as you think, Colonel," Holmes chuckled as he spoke._

_ Then, dismissing the man as nothing so much as an errant thought, he turned his attention to the man still staring numbly from the ground. "Come now, Watson. This is no time to indulge in self-pity. There is still much for you to do."_

_ Watson did not hesitate in reaching with his shattered arm to take that long, pale hand in his own. Holmes' gray eyes twinkled approvingly as he nodded with encouragement. In moments Watson's body was healed and—_

Then he woke to the sunlight filtering through the windows of his little office to lend a warmth to his soul he had not felt in some time. He blinked away the last vestiges of his dream as he again took up his pen. Yes, the world would know the truth of his dearest friend, and the life he gave to save so many others from the evils of Professor Moriarty's schemes.


	18. From Heaven III

_**A/N: **Good grief, still not done. _

* * *

_...Take whatever you're needing_

_Take whatever you can_

_We're broken from within_

_Run to another land_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly From Heaven**_

* * *

Enough was enough. Lestrade yanked the stack of papers right out from beneath the man's head. This was the fifth day in a row he had received nothing but silence in return for his knocking and occasional telegrams. He'd known the doctor was writing up Holmes' last case that had lead them to Reichenbach Falls. But the man had already been only a few steps away from joining his wife and children in eternal rest before Colonel Moriarty had shown his hand. Lestrade was not about to let that man's twisted plots take the doctor the rest of the way over the edge.

His rude removal of the stack of papers Watson had been using as an impromptu pillow had garnered the desired effect. Blearily the doctor blinked up at him in annoyance. The inspector was all too aware that the doctor was not a pleasant morning person even when well-rested. Five days of almost no sleep as he attended patients, performed duties as a police surgeon, and wrote through the night had likely not done anything to improve his morning disposition.

But, Lestrade had come prepared. He replaced the stack of papers with a freshly brewed cup of coffee he'd very easily convinced the maid was needed.

"Good morning, John," Lestrade tossed at him cheerily as he took a seat across from the still scowling doctor.

Somewhere in the man's dark mutterings he heard his name, and it didn't sound very complimentary. Well, he hadn't come here to exchange pleasantries. So long as the man was alert enough to recognize his presence, it was enough for his purposes. Though he'd come to confront the issue head-on, he still found himself somewhat surprised at his hesitance.

"John, I know—"

"Don't, Giles," Watson growled back at him.

_If that's how he wanted it, so be it._

Lestrade gave back a scowl no less fierce. "You may be the closest thing I have to an actual friend, Doctor, but you're no Sherlock Holmes. You could at least do a man the courtesy of listening before you assume you know what I am about to say."

Though Lestrade had seen the man visibly wince at the use of his dearest friend's name, the inspector was pleased to note the coloration return to those pale, sunken cheeks. Chagrined, Watson nodded slowly in apology before downing the cup of coffee he'd been holding idly in his hands.

Still using all the considerable authority he had learned to put into his voice during his years with the Yard, Lestrade continued.

"I know what you are doing. I know you are struggling. I'm no writer, but I can tell when a man is wrestling with something of his own conscience."

Lestrade was not surprised when those green eyes refused to meet his own as the man again nodded slowly.

"I came here to tell you to take the time you need. We, at Scotland Yard, are well aware of the situation regarding Colonel Moriarty. And every one of us wish the truth to be told."

The flush that lit Watson's cheeks soon paled to something akin to a horror and guilt Lestrade could not begin to understand. Obviously there was more to the story than any of them had been told of that day at the falls. For a moment he debated with himself. He wondered if he had pushed too far. He wondered if it was already too late for his friend. He wondered if this would be Watson's last stand before he took himself off to join his loved ones.

"I left him."

This blunt, whispered confession made absolutely no sense to the inspector. But, no explanation was needed to understand that this was the source of the guilt he had seen eating the man from the inside out for two years. Leaning back, he took in those hollowed, grief-stricken green eyes.

"There was a reason?"

Watson nodded mutely, sadly.

"Did Holmes know this?"

"Yes."

"Did he try to stop you?"

"No."

"Then I see no reason for you to feel guilty."

Watson's shoulders still slumped. Lestrade had known his words would have no effect. He had known that from the start. Whatever it was that was destroying him from the inside out was something far more complex than simple guilt. But a bond of brotherhood had been broken that day, and only half a man had returned from the falls. Only Watson could sort it out for himself.

Carefully he picked up the stack of papers he had very deliberately not read and handed them back. Lestrade no longer doubted that this was Watson's last stand. He would finish this one, last tale of his adventure with Holmes. But, before he faded away, he would let the world know the truth. The world would know the truth of Moriarty's lies; and the truth of the doctor's guilt and loss. He watched with sorrow as Watson's gaze turned inward once more; his mind already back in Switzerland where the other half of his soul had been left at the bottom of a waterfall.


	19. From Heaven IV

_**A/N: **Nope, not what I was expecting. But, for anyone following this, you'll be happy to know this is the last part.  
_

* * *

_Will it be the end?_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly from Heaven**  
_

Lestrade read these last few lines of what Watson had titled _The Final Problem_, and placed the magazine slowly back onto his desk with care. Now, to some very small extent, he could understand at least a portion of the guilt the his friend had been feeling all this time. Two and a half years later, the doctor had wasted away to little more than a ghost of his former self. This last, self-appointed task had nearly broken him. Lestrade had been helpless to do more than occasionally prod him into eating and sleeping on rare occasion.

He could not help wondering with no small amount of his own sorrow how long it would be before the doctor let go. It all seemed so ridiculously unfair for such a good man to have suffered this. But, then, if there was any fairness in the world, he would not be a Scotland Yard inspector, either. With near reverent care, Lestrade placed the magazine in a drawer of his desk, and headed out of his office to drag the doctor out of his home. He would be damned if he let the doctor fade to nothing on his watch.

* * *

_Or is he still ascending?_

___**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly from Heaven**_

"Is that all?" Watson asked coldly.

Mycroft blinked back at him across the desk. The icy tones in the doctor's voice had been something of an unanticipated surprise. He dislike surprises. Unlike his younger sibling, this man's character held no interest to him. Surprises only meant he would have to adjust his tactics. Either way, he would have his way.

"Doctor—"

"Enough!" Watson roared, now on his feet heedless of the dark looks he was getting from the nearby secretaries. "Where were _you_ when Colonel Moriarty was slandering your brother's name? _I, _at least, took a stand. You may not like what I have written, but it is the _truth._ To blazes with your 'repercussions'."

Not for the first time, Mycroft considered the numerous ways he would cheerfully murder his brother when he came back. While the task of keeping up with Sherlock's gallivanting across the continents was work enough in itself, he had also dumped this half-dead madman on his hands as well! How the devil was he supposed to get any work done when Sherlock expected him to keep this raving lunatic alive _and_ out of an asylum was not even worth the effort of contemplating.

As his watery gray eyes took in the fierce green eyes staring him down hotly the answer to both his problems presented itself almost too neatly for him to trust even his own considerable logic. The slightest twitch of an amused eyebrow was the only outward indication he gave to the roaring laughter that he combatted within. Already he could picture the difficulties his younger sibling would suffer as a result of this man's affectionate portrayal of the events leading up to Sherlock's death.

"Very well then, Doctor. So long as you are willing to accept the consequences to _all _of those affected through your publication of..._that,_" Mycroft told him with a distasteful wave at the magazine still offending his desktop.

Watson's face darkened further as he opened his mouth to defend his writing once again to a Holmes. Mycroft never even gave him the chance.

"You have elevated his name to something far more than he could have ever hoped to achieve alone, Doctor. Remember that, when others come looking for 'souvenirs' of a dead man from those who knew him."

Mycroft was not a cruel man by nature; just ruthless and willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals for the greater good. He took no pleasure in the agonized expression that flitted across the doctor's face before it paled with the horror of understanding.

"I am a busy man, Doctor Watson. I can see that you understand. There is no need to further discuss this. Mr. Anderson will show you out."

And, just as quickly as he had been summoned, the doctor was dismissed. Only when he was safely beyond the closing door did Mycroft smile in a way that sent his minions scurrying for cover. No good ever came of that smile, in their experience. It wasn't until Mycroft was certain the doctor was far down the corridor that he finally gave vent to the laughter he could no longer stifle. Secretaries and other minions now cowered unseen in their corners.

The elder Holmes no longer doubted that the doctor would find his will to live, even if only long enough to prove him wrong. It was not a permanent solution, but one that served his purposes with very little effort. And the discomfort this would cause his troublesome younger sibling was more than worth the repercussions he would now endure as a result of this latest—and final—publication.

He laughter had dwindled to mere chuckles when a thought occurred to him. Spying the copy of _The Strand _that Dr. Watson had left, his chuckles redoubled. Dear Sherlock had wanted to be famous. Now he was, and would have to suffer the consequences accordingly. In a fit of maliciousness he could not remember having felt since his boyhood torments entitled by the rights of being eldest sibling, he deposited the magazine into an envelope for later shipping. Perhaps murdering Sherlock would give some satisfaction, but letting him live through the after effects of this would be far more entertaining.

* * *

_But if he's all you say_

___**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly from Heaven**_

"'E di' tboo!" wailed little Nathan around the handkerchief now attempting to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

Mrs. Hudson sighed wearily as she again held the handkerchief closer. Not for the first time these last couple of years she wished the doctor were close to hand for someone other than her now deceased tenant. Though the rest of the world—Dr. Watson included—had all but forgotten that little band of street urchins Holmes had brought together as a formidable force in the London underground, she had not. In the absence of her former tenants, she had kept them and their broken, mismatched families together as best she could.

In the wake of Dr. Watson's publication of the last days of Mr. Holmes' life, however, a new uproar had come to unsettle her life. She did not blame the doctor for his absence in all of this. Nor did she blame his lack of visits or returned telegrams in the months since his own family had passed away. But the public release of the detective's final case had stirred the Irregulars in a way she could not hope to cope with on her own.

Now, as she sat with a kitchen full of filthy, ragged children arguing and pushing and making an general mess of her house, she had had enough. After sending one of them off with some money and a telegram, it was all she could do to keep them from taking over her house as she tended to minor injuries and mediated the smaller of the reoccurring arguments. Whatever the doctor had been thinking at the time, he had obviously not considered the already battered emotions of these poor children. And, having read the story for themselves, numerous fights and divisions had broken out all but destroying their little brotherhood.

It broke her heart to know that some blamed Holmes for abandoning them, leaving them once again to their own resources. But, even she could not deny the evidence with her own eyes. The fact that he had given his life for a greater good meant nothing to these children as they starved and froze in the streets for lack of his employment and training. How could she begin to explain to them that he was not the heartless creature he had wanted them to believe?

A moment later this thought was wiped away at the sight of the man who walked through her door. Though he was gaunt and pale almost to the point of what he had been the first time she had ever laid eyes on him, the advancing gray in his hair clearly illustrated that much had happened since then. The deep concern in his green eyes and furrowed brow turned into something akin to amusement as he took in the barely controlled panic around him. He could not begin to fathom what was going on that his former landlady would have so many familiar faces crowding her private sanctum.

"Doctor Watson? It _is _you! Doctor! Tell them! You can tell them—"

Suddenly the din of so many raised young voices crowded out all else. Mrs. Hudson leveled a glare at him that left him in no doubts why he had been summoned here. She gained no satisfaction from seeing his features pale further in understanding what had brought them to this point. But she would not back down either.

As she had expected, he opened his medical bag and began to tend to each and every child they could locate. She turned her attention to finding enough food to go around as she ensured every child had at least a little something as the doctor worked and explained the details behind their final case that had caused such a disturbance in already strained relationships among these children. And, yet, she was greatly warmed by seeing a sense of renewed purpose and duty alight the man's features as he was so forcibly reminded of the responsibilities he and Holmes had left behind. The life that had returned to the man in these few hours was more than she had seen in years. Perhaps it had been worth a few dozen filthy children invading her home.

* * *

_Would he fly from Heaven_

___**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly from Heaven**_

"...the best and wisest..." Holmes muttered to himself.

He paced and smoked and questioned. He could not imagine what he had done to gain such devotion from the doctor. In his near constant flight from Moran and danger for almost three years he had missed much of the events in London. Even the reports from his brother had been sporadic at best. The first paragraphs of Watson's account had disturbed him greatly. The man had to have put himself through hell to have written that, reliving it all over again. The suffering he had endured as a result of the devotion he had bestowed upon his dearest friend showed clearly in each lovingly written line. Holmes' vivid imagination flogged his soul with image after image of his dearest friend forcing himself to write each and every page.

And all to defend a dead man who had abandoned him to _this._

Until recently, he had not dared entertain the possibility of returning to London. Having only recently learned of the passing of Watson's wife and children, he had very nearly done just that. The magazine Mycroft had sent containing these last published words from his dearest friend was more than even he could ignore. Already he plotted his return. Whatever consequences he would endure for his abandonment he would accept gladly; if only to know for himself that Watson was no longer suffering such terrible grief and guilt that his own friend had inflicted.

Better that he be hated for the truth than loved for the lie his friend had published.

* * *

_To this world again_

___**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Fly from Heaven**_

Watson stared at the man who now stood upright and regally in his consulting room. Half of his mind seized in absolute shock and disbelief at the sight of the dead man standing proudly before him. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest as his vision wavered. He lost all sense of his physical body after that. The other half of his mind began to gibber madly that he had finally broken under the strain.

He did not feel the hands that tried to grip his arms to keep him from falling onto his desk. He didn't feel his sudden and violent reaction shoving said ghost away from him with enough force to prove that this was no ghost. He did not feel those same hands planting themselves on his desk as his legs threatened to collapse beneath him.

He could hear, though. He could hear the concern in that terrifyingly familiar voice as he breathed trying to come to grips with the reality that now confronted him in such a brutal fashion. Never in his life had he wished so desperately to just shut down. He wanted the darkness to take him, so he could waken from this dream before he was lost to it. Because what he was now hearing was impossible...unless he was mad.

How many times? How many days had he dreamed of seeing Holmes again? How many nights had he sat alone in this office speaking to the ghost of his dead friend as he envisioned him standing there very much as he had only moments ago? How much time had he lost in grieving for the other half of his soul while his wife and children had needed him? How much of it all had been a lie?

He was so utterly torn between unspeakable rage at the suffering this very same man had caused and the overwhelming desire to shout with joy that he was numb. He truly did feel insane at the moment, and part of him didn't have the strength left to care. As he finally forced his eyes to seek those all too familiar gray ones he found something that proved to him that this moment was real.

The man was terrified. The remorse and muted pain behind those gray eyes told Watson all he ever truly needed to know of his friend's deception. Whatever he had felt at the loss of his dearest friend, Holmes had felt all the more keenly for the knowledge of the suffering he had left in his wake.

"Watson..."

Having regained control of his raging emotions and thoughts, Watson could only smile. By whatever means, whatever miracle Holmes had orchestrated, he was back. Whatever hell they had been through no longer mattered. He was here, he was alive, and Watson would not allow feelings of anger and betrayal to take from him the joy of this reunion. Whatever the days to come may bring, he would revel in the return of his brother to the world of the living.

"Welcome back, Holmes."


End file.
